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Incorrigible bookslutting, dorky old SF about losing limbs, and lunatic angels?

Today, on my day off from working in one bookstore, I, naturally, found myself in yet another bookstore instead.

Then, when I finally got myself out of that one, I went on to a third. As, you know, you do when you are an incorrigible bookslut, and all.

And, apparently, the third time really is the charm. Because there?

There, I somehow managed to stumble across a used copy of my so-favourite-mine-looked-roughly-fifty-years-old-though-I’d-gotten-it-new childhood book. My favourite childhood book, which I had lost in my little Epic Appalachian Escape out of my childhood home, and was still unapologetically mourning:

lightsabers
(Yeah. This is from way back when the Star Wars Expanded Universe was actually still somewhat sane. And yeah, I really was that much of a nerd. Still would be, probably, if the EU hadn’t exploded all to hell.)

And when I suddenly spotted it just sitting there on the shelf, I may or may not have gasped out loud, immediately bounced up onto the balls of my feet to grab the thing, and then clutched it to my chest like I thought someone was going to abuptly barrel into the used paperback room to try and wrestle it away from me, and I would then have to fight for my book to the death. (Spoiler: No one did, but if they had, I would have won. I take my bookslutting seriously, after all.)

I may or may not have also come a little bit close to tearing up, once I was holding onto it.

A little bit. Maybe.

But if you’re here reading this blog, I fancy you’re a reader in general. And if you’re a reader, I am sure you understand what it means to have a book be yours. Where the physical copy itself means as much as the content, the book you picked up countless times for comfort, the one with the spine broken a multitude of times, the one that falls open right to your favourite page, the yellowing book with that gorgeous old-book smell that you wore into the pages yourself…

Lightsabers was that, for me.

And as such, it was essentially irreplacable. I wanted to replace it (and the rest of the entire series, and also several other series I had lost), and badly, but at the same time was incredibly loathe to do so. Because those replacement copies wouldn’t be mine.

This, though? Stumbling across it unexpectedly this way, rather than buying some random used copy online? This one book in the series, on its own, when this is the one that was my favourite?

That’s as close to mine as I’m going to get, I think. And I was happy as all hell. ♥

And then? A few minutes later, I came across yet another book I had absolutely loved and lost, and was looking to replace!

scar night

I didn’t have the emotional attachment to The Deepgate Codex that I did to the Young Jedi Knights, but damn did I love it. And damn am I excited to start a re-read. :)

(And let’s just ignore the fact that my idea of nostalgia appears to be really dorky old sci-fi YA about losing limbs, and a city in chains terrorised by a lunatic angel called Carnival, shall we?)

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On finding the meaning of life in science-fiction writers and cats. (Translation: Yeah, I’m still a hippie nerd, and proud. ♥)

Dear Ray Bradbury:

Where the hell have you been all my life?

With sudden but-not-really-surprised love,
Me.

I finally had my first taste of Bradbury today — The October Country. (No, not Fahrenheit 451.) And even my boycat was almost instantly delighted:

I was sold from the very beginning, myself, from the forward about writing that spoke of May I Die Before My Voices. I sympathised and agreed and just continued to fall steadily more in love…at least, when my cat wasn’t using it as a pillow, anyway.

Reading Bradbury almost reminds me of some of the things I love best about reading Stephen King, only more polished. Poetic. With less man-eating cars.

Needless to say, I am a happy happy girl, and will undoubtedly produce more squee on this subject forthwith.

But the happiest discovery of the day was this:

Meet Halo and Nell, Boycat and Girlcat #2. (And please do ignore the incongruous smatterings of pink smeared about the bed; such things tend to inexplicably happen when I am involved. Please don’t ignore my puppy pillow-pet and beloved stuffed kitty Smokey, however, because they are cute and I would be sad.)

Now, Halo and Nell do not normally get on. At all.

It’s not through any fault of their own, really. Nell was a stray, declawed in all four feet and then dumped by some even-I-don’t-have-enough-profanity-to-fill-this-void into a goddamn New England winter. Needless to say, it’s a wonder she managed to survive at all, and did so with injuries to the face and head that I think damaged both her sense of smell and hearing, making her even more skittish and afraid than she was doomed to be regardless.

And she only did survive because some family happened upon her and took her in, giving her to their older mother to look after and take care of. The woman did so, getting her medical attention and giving her as much general attention as she could — but as it turned out, the woman was unknowingly allergic. No one else wanted Nell, but neither would the woman just dumb her off again, so Nell ended up mostly confined to a back hallway, where she couldn’t set off the allergies as badly, but she couldn’t be properly socialised, either.

But she also ended up on Craigslist, and I saw her, and I couldn’t say no.

I emailed the woman, who was bizarrely surprised — she hadn’t even thought of putting Nell on the site herself, and it was done by a vet assistant without her knowledge. But while she was surprised and intimidated, she liked me, and so we arranged a meeting.

Long story short (we’ll ignore the bit where she pulled up outside my flat and indicated I should meet Nell in her car, and I then willingly got into a car with some stranger from Craigslist because holy shit there’s a cat, shall we–), I liked Nell, too, and she stayed home with me that day. ♥

I can’t say that Nell liked me too, not then. Understandably, Nell didn’t like too much of anything, and had moodswings to match any hormone-addled teenage girl. (Ever hear a cat purr and hiss at the exact same time? Ever been viciously bitten and then immediately sweetly groomed? No? Then you haven’t met Nell.)

So I employed the patented Jacey Kitty-Taming Method, and gave her lots and lots of hugs anyway. (You think I’m kidding. I am not. Much like I will wander into cars with strangers from Craigslist for the sake of a cat, my reaction to a cat attempting to maul my face off is in fact to just give it a giant hug.)

You will also think I am kidding when I say that the patented Jacey Kitty-Taming Method works. But Nell is an entirely different kitty, now. ♥ She is still nervous and mood-swing-tastic, yes, but she both accepts affection and the fact that she wants it. She sleeps in bed with us — alternating sides to be nearest the one of us who is most awake, and more likely to give her pets. She sits and sleeps in my lap. She happily smashes her face into mine to purr. She grooms me more than she gnaws me. She lets me scoop her up and dance around with her in my panties to K-pop. (Which I do in fact do. I admit it. I’ve no shame.)

The one major issue still left unresolved was Halo.

Halo, bless him, is an extraordinarily stupid creature. He’s the apple of his mommy’s eye, to be sure, but even that kind of maternal adoration will not stop me from admitting that, yes, he really is that dumb. (His favourite hobby is eating curling ribbon, for the love of god.)

And so when Halo decided that Nell was a shiny and thusly deserving of being his friend, he went about making her acquaintance by stalking up behind her, attempting to shove his nose into her bum without warning, then crying at me in piteous confusion when her immediate reaction was to growl. And the more she rebuffs him, the more he cries, which probably just annoys her even more too. Then Extreme Pattycake ensues.

Lather rinse repeat. Every bleeding day.

She’s too nervous to trust other cats, and he’s too stupid to catch onto the fact he really ought to let her alone or at least approach her in a somewhat less obnoxious way, so you can understand my concern about these two.

And you can understand how happy I was when I wandered into the bedroom this afternoon, and saw what I did. :)

Because at the end of the day, what can matter more than things like this?